The Heavy Metal Kettle Special

Heavy Metal. Starlog Japan. 1981.


I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and everyone is invited to write a story or poem or article constructed of six sentences based on a cue word given.

This week’s cue word is Kettle


There once was a lady who lived in a kettle

Who loved to listen to Heavy Metal:

Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath and AC/DC

And many more groups besides these three.

Yet she also loved other styles of music:

Gothic, Post-Punk, New Wave, New Romantic,

Classical, K-Pop, Hip-Hop and Be-Bop,

Ragamuffin, Reggae, and Lovers Rock.

There was Afrobeat, Zouk, Funk and Jazz,

Country and Western, Honkytonk and Bluegrass,

Shoegaze, Electro, Jungle and Grime,

R&B, Disco, Folk and Ragtime.

Then Punk, Ska and Rock, and Congolese Rumba,

Chicago Blues, Gospel Blues, Swamp and Delta.

And all this she loved, did that lady in the kettle,

Yet none so much as her dear Heavy Metal.

Her dear Heavy Metal, her dear Heavy Metal –

None was so loved as her dear Heavy Metal.



Thank you for rocking the metal kettle with us 🙂 \m/

Six Sentence Stories: The hen that came down a beanstalk

Jack and the Beanstalk. Illustration by Eric Winter, 1965, Ladybird Books.

I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and everyone is invited to write a story or poem constructed of six sentences based on a cue word given.

This week’s cue word is Eternal.

 

 

The hen that came down a beanstalk

Jack is dead, oh, eternal be his memory –

Yet I have no time for his eulogy, as I clamber down this bristling stalk,

Over leaves as long as surfboards, over beans as big as basketballs,

Down, down, to meet my new horizon which shimmers with a hope

That I may return to a coop of my own.

 

Down I climb to claim this liberty, but – curses – that ogre is after me;

Bigger than me, bolder, brasher, brawnier, broiling with anger and betrayal and

Bloodlust!

 

“Get back ‘ere!” the ogre screams.

 

Frightened, frantic, faster and faster down the beanstalk I scarper,

While above me the ogre booms down oaths of murderous revenge:

The rain is his sweat, the wind is his breath, thunderbolts his words,

Flies and mosquitoes his crumbs of bread…

Broken from the bones of Englishmen like Jack.

 

Down, down, about to touch the ground, and there at the foot of the beanstalk stands

Jack’s mother – her each axe-chop a strike for Jack (oh, eternal be his memory) …

Chop… chop… chop… and at last the beanstalk topples, and with it the ogre

Who breaks his neck as easily as once he broke his bread.

 

Jack’s mother, she scoops me up and cradles me with more love

Than I had ever thought possible could exist; and for this, tomorrow,

After resting, and mending my wings and bruised beak,

I will lay for her a golden egg, as she puts on black robes for the eternal memory

Of her son, brave Jack, who set me free from a castle in the sky.


 

Six Sentence Stories: circles of unsleep

1983. Sleeping Beauty. Brazil.

I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and everyone is invited to write a story or poem constructed of six sentences, and six sentences only, based on a cue word given. This week’s cue word is Circle.

 

 


Poem: Circles of unsleep (I wanna be sedated)

Circle is the clock face saying I should be asleep; circle is the cycle ride to work and back again; same shift, same protocols of care delivered in protective bubbles I dare not breathe too hard against.

Lately I have become disc-shaped playing cards of the person I once was; shuffled, dealt, a forever-hoped-for lucky hand, laid out on a round table next to coffee cup ringlets and saucers of treats meant to keep me going… like a faithful mouser at the family farm.

Circles, circles, going round and round, loops without digression, boomerangs navigating space to return to fingers that grasp in all faith the hope we will defeat the monsters which orbit us.

Will I soon sleep soundly and not awake in the night?

Come full circle, after untold circuits, round and round, our retrodden footsteps stamped into the ground, balls of confusion and spheres of illusion as misty as peering into crystal balls with both eyes shut, will we, will we, will we circumnavigate that which seeks to destroy?

Circle is the mask I wear on my face; circle is the hole in the heel of my sock; circle is the wheel spinning on my bike; circle is the pizza and the cherry pie; circle is the window I gaze longingly through, at the lantern light of the fat, full moon: O moon, you remind me of a great wheel of cheese, as I drift off to a sleep I know I will soon be disturbed from, ba ba baba, baba ba baba… I wanna be sedated.

(After Ramones)


Metallica vs. Ramones – Sedate And Destroy (YITT mashup)


 

Six Sentence Stories: a viral poem

Britains toys. 1983. UK.

I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and the cue word this week is Routine.


A viral poem:

The rime of the ancient healthcarer

 

07h: Colleagues arrive, smiles behind masks, Wuhan shakes all around, wash hands, clean-crisp uniforms, temperatures taken.

09h: Patients washed and fed, some ache, some throb, some sneeze, some cough, mask on, wash hands, gloves on, temperatures taken.

14h: Sanitize, sterilize, realize some don’t like their own company in isolation, oxygen, pills, hand gels and meals on wheels, change mask, wash hands, touch face – blast it, wash hands again.

16h: Mask on, mask off, wash hands, mask on, disinfect, tick boxes checked, temperatures taken.

20h: Wash hands, change clothes, mask off, go home, wash hands, change clothes, watch news with family, prepare sandwiches for tomorrow.

00h: A routine sleep brings bad scenes lathered in dystopian creams, because there’s not enough water to keep us clean in viral dreams it seems we all must share, day after day, day after day, they dropped down one by one; virus, virus, everywhere, and all the crowds were gone.


After The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

#Coronavirus #WashHands

666 screwed…

It seems ominous this post I’m writing to mark Britain’s official exit from the European Union today is post N°666.

Get thee behind me, Satan. And all that.

Iron Maiden. The Number of the Beast. 1982. EMI / Harvest. Art: Derek Riggs.

Not ominous really, perhaps just apt. If I were a blog newbie, then post N°13 would do just as well.

Anyway, sorry for the downbeat tone, I’m just mightily sad that today marks the date I, and many like me, will no longer be treated in law as European. To this I say… go fuck yourself. And please give me my European citizenship and freedoms back. To my Euro and Brit friends in the UK who never asked for any of this, I hope life will be uncomplicated and kind. To my fellow Brits in Europe, I hope it goes smoothly… we are subject in many ways now to our host country regs. And to the Brits who voted Leave… enjoy your celebration, sure, but please don’t rub it in the faces of those whose lives, family, homes, and jobs are being affected.

And now, a Nutella poem

The Nutella Poem

(part III. Exit crisis)

Nutella, Nutella, O how do we send thee across the Channel?

Your nuts enrobed in palm oil, cocoa and tariffs, held up in traffic,

lorry park queues and bound by new rules…

We want our Nutella! shout the hungry masses at the borders.

Nutella! Nutella! Not commemorative tea towels and 50p coins,

Nor mugs with slogans and a chubby thumbs-up!

Nutella! Your nuts! We want your price cuts,

supermarket discounts and multi-buy dreams,

lathered in cocoa, palm oil, oh sugar, oh Nutella…

Oh where is Nigella?

Nigella, Nigella, a recipe we need, to feed us,

to please us, to ease us, tease us, to free us…

from empty cupboards and ration book hell.

Nigella, Nutella, palm oil, nuts, cocoa and sugar,

(love never ends) We’ll always be together, together in Nutella dreams.

Italy. Topolino. 1978.

#JeNeSuisPasUnVirus – be kind. It could be your nation.

#guyverhofstadt – keep up the fight for continued European rights of those citizens about to lose them.

Nutella Poem (part I)

Nutella Poem (part II)


Happy New Yeats! Party like it’s 1999, in 1962!

Prince Magazine Special. 1985. Australia.

Happy new year vintage mates! Sorry we’re late and sorry we got the wrong year, but Wooof and I just got back from time travelling in 1982 watching Prince recording 1999, then we got lost in 1962 and found a cool book of poetry from W.B. Yeats, and then we got tangled up in a vintage space war between aliens and robots disputing a 3 billion year old moon made of chedder cheese and denim!

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